citylogs | Ooh, love (there he goes again)

The Machine of a Dream

Crowley feels the Bentley arrive in a part of him older and deeper than bones. There's a certain dreamy, giddy anticipation that fills him as he descends the steps from the condo, akin to the feeling a six year old might have stumbling half-asleep on Christmas morning to see what might have materialized in the night under the tree.

He at least has the good sense to close his dressing gown as he totters outside with his hair sticking out every which way.

As soon as Crowley makes an appearance, there is what can only be described as an utterly elated 1933 Bentley parked outside Aziraphale and Crowley's condo. Her headlights are flashing back and forth, her engine revving loudly only drowned out by the anthem of her arrival blaring over the stereo.

Not that Crowley is any less delighted about this turn of events; the demon is grinning without reservation, like he'd just been reunited with a runaway puppy.

"There you are. Did you miss me? I missed you too, yes I did. What a good car you are, coming all the way here."

The particularly keen-eyed might notice the keys aren't even in the ignition.

[ it's day two. day two of what? day two of everything. seventy shutters, three hundred pieces of mosaic, ninety seats to remove from their moorings, and thirty buckets of paint and primer ready for a venue that still needs to be cleaned out, and kaveh's making final drafts for the addition of a second stage because apparently the first one isn't quite enough for the musicians. but what he hadn't expected meandering from one end of town towing behind him a long buffet table from where it had been unmoored from a restaurant is a man suddenly speaking to, well, what looks to be a... car?

it's day two and kaveh hasn't slept. he has to pause for a moment as he attempts to discern a) what is being said, and then b) if the car is talking back. because that's definitely a sane thing to expect for all parties involved. ]

Um. [ kaveh says, ever eloquent - ] Did it say something? And could you understand it?

[Crowley eyeballs the table curiously, but passes no remark (yet). But even this momentary diversion of his attention seems to only increase the volume of the music coming from the car's stereo.

He gives the old girl a reassuring pat on the hood.]

'Course I can understand it. Sss my car.

[ the volume of the music seems to increase. kaveh observes, fascinated. ]

Do you think it can tell us about the other cars around here? [ because, you know, talking cars might as well be a normal thing. kaveh has a vampire and a ten thousand year old librarian vying for space in his workshop every week, a talking car seems, on the grand scale thing, if not more understandable, then at least more useful. ] The other ones don't have anything inside of them, so I can't for the life of me figure out how they were supposed to move. But I've been told they're very convenient and they can go quickly around the city.

What? No, why would it -

[Okay, not the most irrational question, but the Bentley is an extension of Crowley's will. The little bit he lets run naked through the rain, metaphorically speaking. But he's not about to explain the weirdness of him and his car to any passing stranger, thank you.]

The cars here are probably empty for the exact same reason the books and papers haven't got any words in them. S'like props in a play or something. Physical things, but not really real.

[ kaveh considers this. ]

Well, I suppose that's true enough. Though the shell of the cars are real, and they can be filled.

- sorry, where are my manners? I'm Kaveh - I'm an architect, though I suppose only recently has there been anything that needed building. What should I call you, and what should I call your partner?

Crowley. Retired. Nice t'meet you Kaveh. My... erm... partner is -- he's, uh -

[He glances back towards the condo where Aziraphale is catching up on some much needed sleep. Had they put any kind of terminology to the change in their relationship? ...Well. Partner seems reasonably neutral enough for... everything and -]

- Hang on a tic; how'd you know I even have a partner? You're not peeking in stranger's windows are you?

[ kaveh looks. ]

Um. Well, if I've been peeking through strangers' windows, surely I would've noticed. [ he looks again. wait just a moment, kaveh's brain informs him, i just wanted to inform you that this is going down a very strange direction, and are you sure you're at the steering wheel? no? do you know what you're doing?

to which kaveh only says the thing that's been on his mind because once you've committed to a certain line of thought you just sometimes had to get it out of you before you could do anything else: ] Isn't your partner your... car?

[ THIS MAN AND HIS CAR SEEMED CLOSE????? ]

( the sound of the bentley arriving in the city could have awoken the dead. the sheer volume of freddy mercury's volume screeching through the night could have vibrated the very bones of anyone buried underground. it could have shattered glass.

it sure as hell woke aziraphale up from the dead of sleep.

aziraphale doesn't get out of bed. the air snaps and he appears, fully dressed, beside crowley as he lovingly coos towards the vehicle. )

This is very unneighbourly.

( sourly. like an angel discovering for the first time what it's like to be rudely woken up. )

[Crowley is not fully dressed. He's in his pajama bottoms, a dressing gown (both black silk) a single slipper, and what could be a sock or just the dark scales on his feet. He didn't even bother to snatch his glasses from the coffee table, but then again Crowley has been wearing them with less and less frequency.

Aziraphale's prim appearance gets a lift of Crowley's brow. He quickly freshens up with a snap of his fingers.]

Do we actually have neighbours...?

[Crowley looks to and fro along the deserted lane, wondering if anyone bothered to occupy the condos next to theirs. He hopes so. He hopes the Bentley woke them and they're very annoyed about it.

He hopes she keeps making so much racket as to break through that constant, deathly silence.

Ooh love, croons the stereo, Ooh, lover boy, What're you doing tonight?

Still grinning ear to ear, Crowley opens the passenger door, and gestures invitingly.]

Think that's the cue to take our car for a spin. You coming, angel...?

( aziraphale actually has no idea. they might not have neighbours, but they also (just as equally) might have them. it would be far better to err on the side of caution and display a little courtesy.

however—

he cannot help the strange feeling of joy that wells up in his chest. he stills sighs as if he's somehow being put upon. )

Well, I suppose there's no reason not to. We're already up and about.

( and just like that, he's back in the bentley. after how many months! )

[Aziraphale's exasperated sigh only gets a devilish grin from Crowley. Once the angel is comfortably seated, he shuts the passenger door and shortly joins him.

For a moment, his hands hover over the wheel, long fingers delicately tracing its curve - a slow, tender touch before he grips it firmly and the engine roars and they are off like a comet, streaking down the nameless city's streets.]

Shame there isn't much in the way of pedestrians out and about.

[One of Crowley's few truly demonic delights is striking terror into the hearts of those with the audacity to walk.]

How does it feel, angel? I don't think they did anything funny to her but I'm open to a second opinion. Sense anything off...?

( of course.

of course the moment that the demon's foot hits the pedal, it really hits the pedal. aziraphale can feel himself sink further against the cushion of his seat from the force of their climbing speed. his hand shoots up, grabbing onto the overhead handle immediately for a second sense of security. )

Like I'm on a joyride with a troubled youth.

( he makes a sharp gesture with his hand. )

Might you consider slowing it down some?

Such a Clean Machine

Crowley can be found hanging out the backseat of his car, a heavy duty shop vacuum roaring in competition with Freddy Mercury blaring through the stereo as he excavates the detritus of the last century from the various crevices of his Bentley.

Crowley relishes in the racket he's making. Nothing more fun than being the obnoxious noisy neighbour. Moreover the car has been in dire need of a proper deep cleaning for a while, and not just the perfunctory miracle that gets rid of whatever's in Crowley's line of sight.

"That must feel better, huh?" he croons to the automobile. It is shortly followed by a surprised exclamation when he finds a ticket stub for the premiere of Death Takes a Holiday.

"How is this even in here?! I didn't even have you when - no, wait, that was 1934. Never mind."

He crumples it, and tosses it in the bin he brought from the condo.

The ticket stub is joined by scraps of various receipts, a credit card he thought he lost back in '87, post-it notes with lists of various wines wedged in crevices of the seat. Under the passenger seat is a tartan patterned tin of half-eaten shortbreads from some pre-pandemic outing he and Aziraphale took. The stale contents get tipped into the bin, but he sets aside the tin with a kind of reverence. Maybe when the weather's nicer, they'll bring it with them on a picnic.

[ What in the world is all of that noise? If not for witnessing Lestat's concert, Ethan would have been much more confused by the genre of music but it isn't the music that surprises him. It's the fact that this guy is talking to the car like it's a living, breathing thing. In fact, he briefly wonders if he's walked by some kind of forbidden tryst. It's only when he moves to walk by that he notices there is only one occupant in the car.

This man isn't talking to a person.

Different worlds, Ethan, different worlds. Maybe this is a perfectly acceptable practice in the futu-- no, it's still weird as hell. So, amidst his cleaning, Crowley will find he's collected an audience. ]

Interesting relationship you two have there.

[Crowley dismisses the remark with a lofty wave of his hand.]

Don't listen to him - [Spoken reassuringly to the car, of course.] - he doesn't know what he's on about.

[The demon extracts himself from the back seat like a snake wriggling out of its den and turns off the shop vac with a click of his fingers.]

Let me hazard a guess - not a lot of automobiles from when you're from...? Give it a few decades - they'll be all the rage.

[ Ethan's tempted to ask if the car talks back or if Crowley just enjoys one-sided conversations but thinks better on it, instead taking a moment to admire it. It's a far cry from the horse-drawn carriages he's accustomed to. ]

He's not wrong. [ .. what. If he's talking to the car, he'll humor him. ] Is it sentient?

[ At the question he chuckles and shrugs. He might not be familiar with them, but he isn't blind, the craftsmanship on this horseless carriage is second to none. ]

Right on the mark. How fast does it travel?

[Crowley just decides to gloss over whether his car is sentient or not. It's a complicated question and he needs about three coffees in him before he'd even think about tackling the answer.]

Fast enough. Like a bat out of Hell when I put the pedal to the metal.

[He pats the hood of a car that blazed down the narrow country lanes of Tadfield, alight with Hellfire, all the way to the end of the world that didn't.

He'd like to see a Prius pull a stunt like that.]

...You're Vanessa's American gentleman, aren't you?

[He's spitballing, but it's not like there's an excess of 19th century cowboys out and about.]

[ A fair predicament, he won't comment on it further but he will file the information away for later. Maybe he can ask Vanessa when he realizes who he is talking to. ]

Interesting choice of words. In any case, I can't ignore such fine craftsmanship when I see it, I had to pay my respects.

[ A Prius could never. Now that gets his attention, he's instantly taking a moment to review the list of names Vanessa gave him upon his arrival. Judging by the last meeting he had with one of her friends, he hasn't made the best impression. Then again, the Ethan that Dream had seen was Lucifer using his form. ]

Yes, Miss Ives and I know each other. Ethan Chandler, and you are.. ?

[He does love his euphemisms.]

Ah. The infamous Ethan. Good to finally put a name to a face.

[Crowley looks infinitely unimpressed. No wonder Vanessa had needed a Girl's Night.]

Crowley. There's an Anthony and a J somewhere in front of that if you go in for that sort of thing, but it's usually just Crowley.

If I was infamous, I wouldn't be the American gentleman.

[ He manages to look amused and pleasant despite Crowley being about as unimpressed with him as he'll be with the milk bone jokes later. ]

Likewise. Mr. Crowley, then, the equally infamous man whose wit I may appreciate. According to Miss Ives.

[ Does he? It's up in the air right now, high up. ]

Snakes in the Grass

As much as Crowley claims his favourite of the seven deadly Big Ones is Sloth, he really does much prefer having something to take up the long days of his life. Getting the condo into acceptable condition had kept him busy for a good month and a half, but other than the occasional adjustment, the home Aziraphale and he had made for themselves was largely finished insofar as much as occupied homes could be 'finished'.

He's taken to haunting the newly (relatively) appeared greenhouse. For all its quirks, it's one of the most useful buildings in the city. He's set out troughs of loam and pots of soil which he has been diligently tending to, and the fruits of his labours have just begun to sprout.

The greenhouse itself has also become a bit of a Project. As far as Crowley is concerned, no plants of his will be growing up in such a shabby environment. It's a bad influence - case in point being those sassy blooms hanging from the ceiling. Unacceptable.

That is how there came to be a large tarp tote bag in the corner filled with shards and panes of glass he collected from the city to be formed and fit into the empty frames.

It's far easier to miracle something that already physically exists rather than creating things whole-cloth. Conservation of mass and all that being the embuggerance it was.

The process goes a bit like this:

It begins with a tape measure and Crowley painstakingly recording the exact dimensions of each frame to the micrometer in a little book. Other calculations follow, scrawled out quickly and illegible to all eyes save the demon's. Whether it's because they're written in a syntax hitherto unheard of to mathematicians or if Crowley's handwriting is just that bad is a toss up.

He then collects bits of glass from the stash, weighing each shard until he has exactly the amount he needs, and carries it all outside to a scorched patch of earth where it all goes up in a pillar of unholy fire until the jagged shards are a malleable glowing lump.

And this is the state Crowley is currently in, eyes blazing a sulfuric yellow behind his shades as he plays with molten glass with all the evident glee of a child that's just been handed a blob of silly putty.

Edited 2023-11-17 21:22 (UTC)

Though this is Loki’s first trip to the gardens, he’s been meaning to come for awhile. He does love gardens of all shapes and sizes and has been interested in having some plants in his apartment… or at very least on his balcony and what better place to see what kinds of plants grow in this strange city than in the gardens that seem native to the area.

What he doesn’t expect to find is Crowley melting glass in the area. The man’s current stat of glee doesn’t bother Loki, though he is curious. Having been raised on Asgard where the weather is always perfect, he’s unused to such things as greenhouses and their requirements for growing plants in the winter time. He gives the man a thoughtful look and cocks his head curiously as he merely watches him for a moment.

“I assume what you are doing has a purpose?” It might not, he doesn’t really know Crowley well enough to say such things, but it seems a good enough opener as any.

"Oh yes," Crowley says, although the ball of molten glass goes through several cycles of being squashed, stretched and rolled into a ball before he decides to elaborate.

"The greenhouse appeared in a state. I'm fixing the broken panes - hopefully I can get it done before winter-proper rears its ugly head."

Crowley is a peculiar creature about temperature. Demons and angels, technically, are quite immune to such things, but Crowley's been on Earth for a while and adapted some peculiar neurosis. He could gleefully hop, skip, and jump (it's not frolicking, shut up) across the surface of the sun without a care in the world, but heaven forfend that the temperature drop so much as a tiny fraction below a balmy 20°C or he'll complain endlessly about it.

But while Crowley is weird about temperature, plants very much aren't. If it's too hot, they die. If it's too cold, they die. They're very consistent like that.

Edited 2023-11-17 22:52 (UTC)

It also doesn’t bother Loki that it takes a bit before he gets a full response. He’s quite taken with watching Crowley work with the glass, moulding it to how he wants it. Working with your hands like that isn’t something Loki has much experience with, but it seems rather satisfying.

“Would you like some help?” Another thing Loki really isn’t used to is wanting to help, and certainly not offering help even when he did, but this place seems to be changing him. Or maybe it’s really just the people he’s met here, but really a lot of it is likely more to do with his love of plantlife.

Loki is also peculiar about temperature, though his is very much physiological. He, of course, is fine with warm temperatures, but he does often think of his few trips to Jotunheim and how wonderful the cold had felt. He hadn’t really had the time to enjoy, or really even consider that at the time, but now he wonders about what a winter might actually feel like.

“Do you think this place will see snow?” Of course he knows that Crowley likely has as much of an answer to that as he does himself, but he also clearly knows a lot more about the climate of Earth than he does.

"Hope not. This place is cold and quiet enough without adding snow to the mix," he says, thinking of those rare snowy nights - proper snows, not the soggy stuff that turns to rain after a couple of hours - where the roar of London's nightlife would be smothered under a gradually thickening blanket of snow.

It got so quiet, Crowley could start to hear himself think, and that level of introspection never led to anything good.

The city is vast enough with a population in and about a hundred people, without any bugs or foxes or drunk college students or other urban wildlife out and about making the sort of ambient noise Crowley had gotten so used to.

It was almost as quiet as that time before time. Before much of anything, really.

Snow would make the city unbearable. Best not to dwell on it.

"Has the god of mischief ever fit a replacement pane...?" he asks with a curious lift of his brow.

“You do not like snow then?” Loki frowns slightly. He’s really only experienced snow in the frozen wilds of Jotunheim, but he knows of what Midgardian snow can be like. It always seemed calm and quite beautiful. He must admit, at least to himself, that since he realized that this place was getting cooler that maybe he might get to experience it for himself.

The idea that it might be too quiet doesn’t occur to Loki. Despite his rather chaotic nature, even he likes peace and quiet sometimes and he has a bit of a romantic notion of sitting on his balcony as the snow falls over the quiet city. Though really, with this place such peace would likely come with more awfulness. Who knew what this place would stir up next?

Loki chuckles at that, rather enjoying the use of one of his titles in what he thinks is in jest. “I cannot say I have, but I am a rather quick learner.”

[ Dream has taken to little walks throughout the City, mostly around the park and places where nature would naturally happen. he just wishes there were birds to feed there. he comes upon the greenhouse today, pausing while he watches this demon(?) light something up with hellfire, his head tilting as he sees how they seem to be on the verge of cackling while playing with the molten glass. ]

What are you doing?

[There it is, that weird sensation, like he's up in front of a crowd with his skin on backwards. Alien enough to be disorienting but familiar enough that there is a brief flicker of something akin to recognition. One of those sorts. Oh, not one of Them. Crowley's been around the block, seen enough plagues, famines, wars, and, of course, that last one, that he could pick out the not-so-fab four on sight.

But something similar.

His skin prickles and his teeth itch.]

Oh. Uh.

[He inclines his head to the greenhouse, nervously passing the molten ball from one hand to another. He takes a cautious step back.]

The greenhouse is a bit dingy. Got to fix some of the windows.

[ Dream just stares at the demon as he seems to suddenly lose his confidence at noticing him. one of the more clever demons, then, if he recognizes Dream and doesn't try to attack or antagonize him right off the bat. the unblinking stare is only broken by his glancing away, looking at the greenhouse when mentioned and probably providing Crowley a little relief when he does. ]

A rather unusual way to repair the glass, is it not?

[With the wind quite taken out of his sails, the deflated demon fidgets with the molten ball.]

Usually I'd miracle it, but powers being what they are here, figured recycling would be easier...

[Crowley trails off, deciding it's better to explain through example. The ball of glass lifts up from his palm and with a few gestures, forms into a square shape. It soon cools enough that it's no longer a glowing mass of orange, but rather a deep, dark, bottle brown with a clear bit in the middle, shaped suspiciously like the milky-way galaxy.]

[ he glances back to him, eyes darting to the shapes glass. ]

Impressive. Though the use of hellfire leaves cause for concern to others.

Eh.

[This is met with a casual shrug.]

The unholiness will fade after a couple days into a light malaise of wickedness. I'm not exactly imbuing anything with my Evil Essence here.

And the plants that will be in proximity of such as your creations?

You mean those unruly little delinquents?

[Crowley gives a haughty sniff.]

They didn't bat so much as a metaphorical eye at the usual threats involving the garbage disposal. Do you seriously think a little demonic miasma is going to have any effect?

[ Dream's eyes narrow slightly, his head tilting ever so little as he considers him. ]

What is your name, demon?

[Crowley can't help the defensive bristle at the tone. It's not that he's in any denial about what he is, nor does he particularly hold it against others for being unsettled by him. Demons don't exactly engender the benefit of the doubt, after all. But that 'demon' was said with a hard 'd'.]

Crowley. Charmed, I'm sure.

Crowley.

[ his eyes remain narrowed, but the consideration behind his pale eyes eases off a bit. ]

I am unfamiliar with you.

Could say the same of you.

[Crowley decides not to push his luck as he sets down the cooling glass, and gets out his tools.]

Ssserpent of Eden and Hell's former operative on Earth.

[He begins to chip out the last jagged fragments of glass from the pane before scraping out the old putty that once held them in place.]

Anyway, you're not War, Famine, Pestilence, Pollution, or Death, but you're definitely of their ilk. Where do you fall in the anthropomorphic personification category?

Only Death is of my Family, our eldest sister, and we are considerably older than those you name as prophesied.

[ he steps closer to watch him, but he maintains a respectful distance while he does. ]

I am Dream of the Endless.

A Hypnos to her Thanatos of general psychopomps, eh? Right.

[Crowley resists the urge to crawl out of his own skin when Dream steps closer. Sure, he's probably not as actively malevolent as the likes of Pollution or War, but he was the embodiment of dreams.

Which meant that he could get inside anyone's head. Have a little rummage around. Make them see anything.

Crowley decides very quickly not to get on this one's bad side.]

...Never replaced glass before...?

[He aims for casual. He's good at casual. Goes for something Dream seems curious about. Maybe he'll lose interest once he realizes Crowley prefers doing things the (mostly) human way.]

Oneiros to her Teleute during that era of Greek prominence on Earth, rather, though of late my preference has been Lord Morpheus.

[ said almost offhandedly while he watches Crowley work. he doesn't step closer though, which Crowley likely appreciates. ]

I have, though not in such a manner. Sand is one of my tools, after all.

Morpheus.

[Something about the name - Oh for fuck's sake.]

Hang on a tic.

[Crowley whips out his phone, typing in a quick message to Vanessa, before pocketing it again.]

Anyway. Sand, eh? Like in the song?

Edited 2023-11-29 17:19 (UTC)

[ he watches Crowley pause in what he's doing to bring out his device instead with an air of disinterest, but there's the slightest frown of confusion at the question. ]

Song?

Uh.

[Crowley hesitates. There's a little radio inside the greenhouse he took from an electronics shop. The whole thing turned out to be a waste of time; it doesn't play anything but static unless Crowley concentrates really hard, expending constant miracles which is, ultimately, counterproductive to why he's here in the first place. The first few bars to one song, however, shouldn't be to draining.

He clicks his fingers.

The first tinny notes, crackling with static, float from inside the greenhouse. Mister Sandman sings a cheery voice, bring me a dream tonight...]

[ Dream doesn't look away from Crowley even as the music starts to pipe up from the little radio, the stare unwavering as if he's trying to puzzle out how his demonic magic works differently from the other demons he knows.

after several excruciatingly long seconds of staring, he finally glances towards the radio, saving Crowley from his regard. ]

Ah. Yes. That is one of my names, though it is certainly older than this song.

Ehh, it's relatively recent.

['Relatively recent' being less than a century old.]

So the whole sand bit is actually a thing, eh? Funny what carries over.

[Then again, he supposes, Death doesn't need a scythe nor War a sword. It's just the way human brains shape these concepts like a collective ball of metaphysical Playdoh.]

Edited 2023-11-29 21:45 (UTC)

It is one of my tools of office. How I create.

Ooh, love (there he goes again)

Open Starters

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CASA DE GAYNGEL...........

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